


Want/Need

by Draikinator



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambassador Frisk, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post Game, Post-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Frisk, Second Person, Tags and such will change with the next chapter, depending on chapter, fantastic monster racism, many year in the future, reader is sans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long time since I've needed you, but that doesn't mean you get to quit on me now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dissonance

“Sans.”

He grunts, but doesn’t get up.

“Sans!”

Same result.

“We have a meeting in an hour, Sans. Get up.”

“Just go without me,” he whines, a little gruffly, voice tired. You narrow your eyes, cross the room, and rip the comforter off.

“Come on, lazy bones, time to rise and shine!”

Sans scrambles to cover himself in the comforter again, making these startled, frustrated little noises, “Frisk! Come on!”

“Don’t make me call Pap,” you warn, folding your arms. He groans, but finally relents.

“Fine. Get out of my room, I’m getting dressed.”

“Thank you,” you say, and grab the handle of the door to shut it behind you, “I’ll be in the car. Don’t make me wait.”

* * *

 

“Jesus christ-” he nearly shoves you off the mattress when you crawl onto it and bury yourself in covers, startled, “w- Frisk? What- what are you doing here?”

“Nightmare,” you say, and ignore his confused body language, burying your face in his jacket. Why does he sleep in that?

“Nightm- did- did you walk here?”

You nod.

“Frisk, buddy, your house is like, three miles from here.”

You nod, and cling tighter, tiny fists balling against the fabric. You’re shaking. You wish you weren’t.

“Hey, hey,” he says, struggling to sit up and simultaneously wrap you into a weird blankety bundle, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Okay?” He lets you bury your face in his collarbone, and even though you quiver, you don’t cry.

“It was one of those dreams,” you say, “the bad ones, where- where- it wasn’t me, Sans, I didn’t want to, I promise I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t, I’m sorry-”

Your words are running together, but he just keeps holding you, and it feels safer than anywhere else usually does, which is ironic, because you don’t know anyone else with as much experience killing you.

“It wasn’t,” he says, after awhile, “I believe you. Does your mom know where you are?”

You don’t respond. He’s going to kick you out. You expected this.

“Okay…” He says, slowly, like he’s tasting the words, “I’m gonna call your mom and tell her where you are, okay?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to go home, not yet. You don’t trust yourself near Momma with these things in your head.

“Why not?”

“Don’t wanna go.”

“You don’t have to go,” he sighs, “but Tori’s gonna be worried sick if she notices you’re gone, okay?”

He’s right. She usually checks on you at night. She’s always so worried. You don’t want to make it worse. You nod.

“Alright. Okay, good.” He stands up and carries you, blanket trailing along the floor, to the other side of the room, where he digs his phone out of his pants on the floor. “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want, okay? It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You’re okay.

 

* * *

 

You make the turn off only just barely, caught behind a blue sedan that seems determined to cut you off. You’re making awful time.

“Sans, call the hotel and tell them we’re running later, alright?”

He snorts, sighs, and opens his phone. You’re almost surprised when he actually does it, and you just focus on getting through the traffic lights without breaking the speed limit too badly.

You’re late when you arrive and you end up smoothing out your suit jacket in the parking lot. You have to stop him halfway through the rows of cars and make him tuck his undershirt in, but even you can’t get him to straighten his tie or button up the jacket. You’ll just have to settle for this, you guess. You’re just glad you’re taller than him, somehow despite the fact Sans is a literal skeleton in a dress jacket his height still makes him less than daunting.

The German diplomats frown at his sloppy dress when you arrive and primly shake their hand, apologizing for holding them up. You worry at first it’s going to sour the dialogue of German-Monster relocations, but the Germans seem quite happy to be the third country to renegotiate Monster passport stipulations to be identical to human passports. You only have to nudge Sans three times when he forgets to take notes, too.

He doesn’t say anything on the drive back to the hotel, but you open your laptop on the bed when he goes to turn on the tv and google some local tourist traps.

“Our flight doesn’t leave until four thirty, tomorrow,” you say, “We have plenty of time to explore before then, if you want.”

He scoffs, “I’m good. The jetlag is killing me, anyway.”

You frown, and pull up some restaurants instead, “Alright, well, what about dinner? It’s barely dark, man, how about we go grab something?

"Can’t we just get room service?”

“No,” you say, decisively, and lean over the side of the bad to grab your bag and pull out a more comfortable shirt, “I’m getting changed, and then we’re going to go get something German. I dunno what, but we’re gonna get it. Sauerkraut? Bratwurst? I have no idea, but we’re gonna go eat it.”

“Just bring me a doggy bag, alright?”

“No.”

He whines, but relents, finally, and seems in a better mood once you’ve let him change back into clothes that make him look like a retired basketball player mourning their glory years.

* * *

 

You’re hiding in the bathroom and you know there’s not a lot of time before someone calls a teacher. You have to think of something, because you locked the door and you’re not supposed to, and you don’t want someone to go find your mom because you know she’s in the other building with a class and you’re already embarrassed.

You pull your cell out of your pocket.

“Sans-” you whisper, nervously, “Sans, I- I need you.”

“Whoa, bud, what’s up?”

“I- there was- just come get me, okay? Take a shortcut.”

“…Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. Sans, please.”

You joly when a hand stops on your shoulder and whip around. He’s shoving his phone back in his pocket and his face goes from concerned to surprised to confused to angry when he sees your face. You look down, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly.

“Who did this?” He asks, eyes dark.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does. I’ll kick their ass.”

“I know. Please don’t fight a child, Sans,”

His eyes soften, but only just.

“Why’d you let them do this to you?” He asks, and tilts your face up to get a better look at the words “MONSTER FUCKER” scribbled crudely across your skin in permanent marker. You know your face is red and raw with having tried to scrub it off, and you can’t look him in the eye, “You could have kicked their asses yourself.”

“That’s why I didn’t.”

You’re both quiet, and then he sighs, and pulls his phone back out. He hits a few buttons and holds it to the side of his earless head.

“Tori? Yo, yeah, the kid’s sick. Pukin’ like a dog. Didn’t wanna interrupt your class, so I’m gonna take em home and get ‘em set up with some tv and motrin, a'ight?”

He pauses for a moment, “Yeah, no problem. See you then.”

He clicks it off and shoves it back into his pocket.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, and offers you his hand.

* * *

 

“Sans, I’ve got some paperwork I need faxed, are you coming in today?”

“Yeah.”

You lean back in your chair and run your fingers through your hair, “When?”

He makes a noncommittal noise.

“Now, Sans. Come on.”

“…Fine,” he sighs. The line clicks off.

He gets there about forty-five minutes later, which is curious, because he only lives twenty minutes from the embassy. He’s dressed in his casuals, like he’s daring you to fire him. You make it a point not to mention it.

* * *

 

You sneak into the kitchen to tastes the batter while Momma makes cinnamon-snail pie, and when she’s not looking at you, you accidentally elbow the bag of flour off the counter reaching for the bowl.

It’s like the whole world moves in slow motion, and for one moment, you’re looking at harmless white powder, and every moment after, it’s an entirely different kind of dust, and just like that, everything is covered in it. The body bursts on the ground, devoid of magic, sending bursts of dust across the floor in a white explosion. Your breath catches in your throat and you think for a second you’re terrified, but you aren’t. You’re excited. You’ve never seen anything that looked so fun but to go tromping through it, and then there’s a hand on your shoulder and oh god she’s going to kill you she’s going to kill you she’s going to KILL YOU if you don’t do something and there’s screaming in your head DEFEND YOURSELF FRISK DEFEND YOURSELF DEFEND YOURSELF and you grab the butterknife off the counter, hands shaking leaves and you DEFEND YOURSELF and-

“Frisk!” Her voice is muffled through the door but you lean against it, door locked, hands quivering, chest heaving. Oh god. Oh god, what have you done?

“Frisk! Honey! It’s okay!” It’s not. It’s not it’s not it’s not it’s “It’s only a little cut! I know it was an accident! Please come out of the bathroom!”

You sink down to your knees and lean against the door, shoving your head into your thighs and gasping for air, fingers digging into the back of your scalp. No, no, no, no, not ever, never again, no no no.

She spends the next ten minutes trying to reason with you, and then there’s a few moments of silence, and then there’s a different kind of knock on the door. You can tell who it is immediately because no one else has knuckles that boney.

“Kid,” he says, “can I come in?”

You can’t even answer, breath caught in your throat.

“Knock once for yes, knock twice for no.”

You think about it, and then knock once.  
He’s in front of you when you look up.

“Hey,” Sans says, kneeling down, “it’s okay. You’re okay. Let me see it, okay?” You shake your head and he draws his hands back. “I need to know you’re okay. Okay?”

His eyes are so serious that you swallow and move your legs away. He winces when you pull up your shirt and show him where you slammed the knife into your stomach, the aching red hole that’s bleeding all over the floor.

“You’re not okay,” he says, voice quivering, “I can’t fix that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, shivering, “I didn’t know what else to do- I- I didn’t want to-”

“I know,” he says, quickly, “I’m not mad. I’m not mad, no one is mad, but we need to- you need to- when did you last save?”

You look at him like he’d just asked you the weather on Jupiter, “what?”

“I’m not risking this,” he whispers, pointing at the hole in your stomach. It’s fine, really, it doesn’t even hurt anymore. “I’m not risking you. Go back.”

“It’s, um,” you say, and you’re starting to feel tired, “like a month ago.”

“I don’t care,” he stresses, “Frisk. Please. Go back, okay? Please. You’re gonna be okay.”

The way he says it makes you believe it, so you do.

* * *

 

“Hey!” You say, as he’s gathering up his things to leave, the clock having just ticked over to five, “Don’t forget about tomorrow.”

He gives you a look, “What’s tomorrow?”

“Kid’s wedding, remember? You’re still my plus one.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Alphys’s brother. No arms?” you sigh. The recognition clicks in his eyes.

“Oh! Right, yeah. Sorry, I forgot, I have plans.”

“What? Sans, no, come on, you- don’t make me go to this alone, man.”

“Sorry, Frisk, I- I mean, come on, I barely even know him.”

He shoulders his backpack like he’s finished and it’s decided, and that’s it. You’re done.

“Fine,” you say, terse, “Whatever.”

“Frisk-”

“No, it’s fine. I should have known not to rely on you, so it’s my fault.” You can see him wince, hurt by the words, but you’ve had a shitty day and you can’t deal with this right now. You hate how good it feels to know that your words are cutting through him.

“Sorr-”

“Don’t.” You say. There’s an awkward silence, and he leaves. You knead your hands against your desk and read the same piece of paper four times before you cram it into your desk and go home.


	2. Pathetic

You do your best not to have to get out of bed that morning, because getting out of bed means you have to be awake, and if you’re awake you have to feel things, and the most prominent of those things will be guilt, because you’re a lying, inconsiderate sack of shit and you know it, so rather than that, you consciously and actively decide to force yourself back into nightmare laced hellsleep for a few more hours until you can put it off no longer and toss your comforter off.

The first thing you do is go downstairs and grab a bottle of ketchup from the fridge, and the second thing you do is turn on the tv. The third thing you do is drop the bottle on the floor when your breath catches in your chest and your hand jerks in surprise, fingers slipping against the plastic as the news describes the death tolls at today’s early monster-hate crime bombing that killed the ambassador and a dozen other politically significant figures at a wedding in New York.

The names scroll by, endless, almost, and your bones are rattling, not because you should have been there, but because you weren’t. You weren’t there.

There’s eight calls from Alphys on your cell phone and one text that just says “please.” Papyrus left you a voicemail. He’d gone.

Your hands are shaking. Your eyes are wet. The world is cruel.

And everyone’s dead.

* * *

 

“Hey, don’t put that in your mouth,” you say, grabbing the ketchup bottle from them. Frisk looks up at you with that familiar pout.

“Nuh, want it,” they say, and jump for it. You’re chest a bit, levitating it just out of reach. They’re taller than you already.

“It’s bad for ya, kid,” you say, “and gross.”

“You drink it!” They say, and change tactics, crawling up your side like an angry koala and reaching for the bottle.

“Yeah, well, I’m a grown up, and grown-ups can- oh, shit-” you curse as you trip over your slippers and flop facefirst onto the kitchen floor. Frisk makes a delighted noise and runs for where you’ve dropped the bottle, then turns and heads back to you, worried.

“Are you okay?” They ask, trying to help you up. They’re too small for this. You think you actually bruised a rib trying not to fall on them, but you aren’t gonna say so.

“Yeah, buddy, I’m fine. Whatever, drink your tomato paste.” You drag it back from where it had fallen with magic and drop it in their hands. Frisk smiles at you like a dope, before shoving the top in their mouth and slurping like you do. Toriel’s going to hate this.

* * *

 

You don’t know how long it takes for the reset to go through. The guilt and panic and grief overwhelm you and you can’t get up off the floor for what feels like hours. It might have actually been hours. You have no frame of reference, and that time is gone now, forever, so you never will.

When the world comes back into focus you’re in bed and it’s morning, early morning, long before you woke up in the late afternoon the last time you’d done this day. You scramble out of the covers, panting, panicked.

You call Frisk, desperately digging your cell out of your pants, sweating and swearing.

“Can’t talk,” they say, hastily, “I’m fixing this. Could take a few resets. Sorry in advance.”

The line goes dead before you get in a word edgewise. You curl up in bed again under the covers and shiver. The days resets at least four more times but you can’t be sure that’s all before night falls. You don’t sleep, and when the sun rises in the morning, you check your phone again.

 _Done_. It says, from Frisk.

You wait until the sunrise is complete before squeezing into that suit they keep telling you to wear around the embassy and taking a cab there because you don’t trust yourself to drive. Frisk isn’t there when you get there. The secretary, a bunny woman you vaguely recall from Snowdin as a neighbor tells you they called in sick today, so you take another cab to their apartment and knock on the door with a trembling fist.

They look tired when they open the door, eyes puffy, dressed in a baggy old shirt and shorts you think look suspiciously like yours.

“Frisk,” you say, concerned, and then they take a swig from the bottle you didn’t realize they were holding and turn away from the door, leaving it open for you. They sort of stumble back to a blanket nest on their couch and curl up in it in front of whatever cartoon they were watching wordlessly. You shut the door.

“Buddy,” you say, hesitantly, and approach, spying the label on the bottle- some kind of high-proof white vodka, and half the bottle is gone, which concerns you, because it’s only seven in the morning, “What happened?”

“Bad shit,” they whisper, and you’re taken aback, unused to hearing them swear, “bad, bad shit, Sans.”

You sit on the arm of the couch. You don’t know what to say.

“Human extremists?”

“Human extremists,” they take another swig, and scrunch up their face at the taste, “I don’t know why we ever came up here. I don’t know why any of you can stand me when I’m related to, to-” they seem at a loss for words for a moment, overcome by emotion, “fucking them.”

“Frisk, no, come on, you’re- you’re nothing like them,” you say, and the more they cling to that bottle when you have never seen them drink before the more worried you get, because you’re the resident worthless trash and there’s no room for stand-ins, “you’re one of us.”

“I’ve seen your dust, you know,” they say, staring at the label, and they give a half-grimace half-smile, “it’s soft, actually, softer than your brother’s.”

You feel the anger well up inside of you, unexpectedly, unfamiliarly, “Shut up, Frisk.”

They make a sound that’s either a sob or laughter or both and tighten their grip on their blanket, “See? I could never be one of you. But you’re right, I’m not one of them either. What am I, even? Nothing. I’m nothing.”

You’re taken aback. You’ve seen Frisk bad off in a lot of ways before, but never like this. This was utterly new territory, and it’s scaring you. They take another swig and slam the bottle onto the table, curling further into themselves.

“Jesus Christ, Frisk,” you whisper, “What the fuck happened?”

There’s a long silence and you’re trying to think of how to break it when they whisper, hoarse and watery, “Get the _fuck_ out of my house, Sans.”

You get the fuck out of their house.

* * *

 

“I need a new assistant.”

You look up over the pot of noodles you’re stirring at them. You’ve been keeping your eyes and your thoughts averted while they cut vegetables into tiny moist chunks. “What? What happened to Kid?”

They scraped off a pile of diced onions into a tupperware bowl, “Nothing really his fault, he tripped and fell on a Ukrainian diplomat. Personally, I didn’t think it was a big deal, but he’s so embarrassed he quit. I’m gonna try and find him a new job, though- does Papyrus still need waitstaff?”

“Uh… He doesn’t have any arms, does he?”

“He’s really creative. He took notes.”

“He took notes? Without… Arms?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” you say, and go back to stirring the pasta, “I’ll ask him when he gets here.”

“I want you to take the job.”

You nearly drop the salt shaker into the pot, “What?”

“You don’t have one, right? I want you to take it.”

“Frisk. I’m not qualified.”

“I trust you,” they say, but they’re stirring butter unto the pan to brown them, and avoiding your eyes.

“What? Why?”

“I can’t think of anyone I trust more,” they shrug. You squint your eyes.

“You’re serious? You wanna put me in front of a bunch of diplomats?”

“I want to put you in front of a bunch of diplomats.”

“…Alright.” You go back to stirring the noodles, unsettled, but you can see them smiling.

* * *

 

You think about going to Papyrus’s or maybe even Toriel’s, but you don’t want to see anyone. You briefly consider killing yourself, but it’s a fleeting desire you’re too tired to really invest any time in considering realistically.

Instead you just go home, uselessly, and ball yourself up on the couch in front of day time tv and feel sorry for yourself. You think about eating but don’t, you think about leaving but don’t, you even think about crying, but don’t.

You really fucked things up this time. They never needed you anymore, hadn’t needed you in years, but kept you around anyway like some kind sick skeletal parasite, not because you contribute anything positive or meaningful to their life, but because they feel- felt- like they owed you something.

And that debt had finally run out, apparently. Whatever tenuous grasp you’d had on their pity was utterly lost due to your own bullshit. You fucked up. You fucked up.

There’s a knock at the door, and then it opens. You can’t bring yourself to look up, because it’s probably Toriel or Papyrus, and then a scaly blue hand grabs you by the jacket, drags you off the couch and throws you on the floor.

“Get up, scrublord,” Undyne snarls, folding her arms, “you gotta go talk to the kid.”

You stare at her, baffled, “They don’t wanna talk to me.”

Undyne gives an overdramatic sigh and stomps her foot, “Look, okay, I don’t know shit about you two, I’ve never known what the fuck you have going on, like, I don’t know if you two are romantic-”

“Ew, I’m, like, fifteen years older than them-”

“Or some kind of weird surrogate brother-”

“Seriously, again, fifteen years-”

“Or their weird uncle-”

“That makes whatever I have going on with Tori kinda fucked up-”

“Or their weird dad-”

“Bone daddy.”

“What? Ew.”

“Sorry, I- habit.”

“Look,” Undyne sighs, relenting a little, “I don’t know what you two have. It’s weird, but it’s important, and I know they sure as hell don’t need me right now. I’m not good at this touchy feely emotional shit. It’s not my play.”

“They don’t need me,” you say, furrowing your eye sockets together, “They really don’t need me.”

“Ugh. Please don’t make me get touchy feely emotional with you, man.”

“They don’t, though!”

She runs her hand through her hair and adjust her ponytail before plopping onto the arm of your couch. You don’t dare get off the floor.

“Alright. Well, then. Do you remember, like, three years back when you had some kind of breakdown when that girl dumped you?”

You wince, “Yeah? What about it.”

“You were missing for three days when the kid showed up at my door- seriously, _my_ door. _My door!_ And they’re sobbing like I ain’t never seen them before and the kid just grabs me and starts saying over'n over again- ‘it’s my fault. It’s my fault. I killed him again, it’s my fault.’”

You look at your feet.

“And so I say to 'em,” Undyne continues, checking the sharpness of her claws, “you killed who, buddy? What are you talking about? And they say, 'It’s all my fault. He needed me and I didn’t help him, and now he’s gone. He’s dead, I just know it, he’s dead out there Undyne and he’s dead because I didn’t help him when he needed me, I killed him again but worse this time.’”

She pauses, but keeps her eyes off you, “And I don’t know if you’ve got some kind of skeleton invincibility or whatever that means, or that when they said they killed you they were being literal or not, but, I also don’t care. What I do know is that they gave you that job you take for granted right after you came back. You two were always hella fucked up. Don’t think I don’t know about the night terrors, they’ve spent plenty of time at me and Alphys’s place, hell, they spent the rest of that night curled up with Alphy, comparing shit they did or said to anime characters. So Frisk got better, and you didn’t. Congrats. They don’t fucking need you like they did when they were a preteen with ptsd and abandonment issues. Here’s what you never got.”

She leans in really close to you, enunciating, “Codependency is really fucking unhealthy, Sans.”

“What?” You stammer, and she rolls her eyes, leaning back.

“They don’t keep you around because they need you. They keep you around because they want you. That’s a trillion times more valuable anyway. Unfortunately they do, genuinely, need you right now, before they drink themselves into a fucking coma, okay? Now stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself and go act like an actual fucking friend, okay? Jesus.”

You stare at her dumbfounded for a moment, because wow, she just totally gave you an anime-class speech on friendship and you think it might have actually worked, because, suddenly, with the way she’s looking at you the words take hold inside your ribs and she’s right- they don’t need you. They want you. You have to help them.

Something flares in your chest, old and warm, and you find yourself filled with determination. You scramble to your feet, grab your coat and you’re out the door.


	3. Breathless

You're getting too old for this shit.

You went for a walk in case Sans came back, because you sickly kind of wanted him to come back to your apartment and find you gone and worry, because on days like these you craved that kind of pity like you used to crave LOVE, but then your mood had taken a downward spiral in the moist-grey of mid-morning and you hadn't wanted to go back, and now?

Well, now you're probably making some bad decisions.

Number one, you're on a bus. Number two, this bus stops a mile away from the maw of Mt Ebott's Underground exit. Number three, you'd bought a knife at a dollar tree you'd passed on the way here, and it was now tucked into the waistband of your shorts, hidden beneath the soft folds of the oversized cotton shirt you hadn't changed out of before you'd left.

You lean your head against the window and watch the rolling hillscape crawl by sleepily and ignore the constant buzzing of your cell in your pocket.

* * *

 

“Sans,” you whisper, and he leans away from the bar to look at you, “Papyrus has been worried sick. Have you been here all night?”

He gives you a bleary, confused look, and then turns his attention back to the half finished beer clutched in his hand. “i… no… what time is it?”

“It’s two AM, Sans,” You say, gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looks stricken by this information and his shoulder jerk upward, his head falling into the crook of his elbow while he groans.

“fuck…” he says, slowly, “of course it is.”

“Hey, hey,” you say, softly, and pull his head up. His eye sockets are moist. He looks so tired. “It’s okay. Everyone’s worried, not mad. Because we care about you. Okay?”

He sniffles, pathetically, “fuckin’ unbelievable. just forget it, frisk… i’m not worth the effort.” His head slides back into his arms and you grit your teeth, sighing, and force your hand between his chest and upper arm, lifting him upward with his shoulder. He spills his beer but doesn’t seem to care, limply letting you lift him upward. He’s not heavy, there’s nothing to him but bones and fabric.

“Sorry,” you say to the bartender, “I’ll come pay off his tab tomorrow, okay?”

Grillby nods at you, silently. You shoulder a limp, sniffling Sans out of the bar, his feet dragging.

“You’re gonna be okay, man,” You say, quietly, mostly to yourself, “Whether you wanna be or not.”

* * *

It’s not that long a hike up to Mt. Ebott, but between the bus ride and the walk, it’s mid afternoon by the time you step up to the mouth of the cave and into the darkness. You slide your phone out of your pocket, take a moment to look at the thirty-five text messages from Sans, ten from Mom, fifty-seven from Alphys, two from Papyrus, nine from Kid, one from Undyne, and slide past them, opening the flashlight app and using it to light your way.

Chara’s yelling in the back of your head, but you’ve gotten used to ignoring them. They’ve been quiet for awhile, now, tired, probably, you haven’t heard from them in weeks, and they haven’t screamed like this in years, probably since the last time you came down here. You don’t pay them any mind; they’ll get tired soon.

The core has long since gone cold in the many years since it’s abandonment, but you don’t mind the walk down. It actually helps calm you down- the emptiness of this place is comfortable, because you know it means everyone is safe outside. You have the walk back the whole way, though, through the sweltering scorched Hotland and soft damp Waterfall, cold, quiet Snowdin, the empty, hollow ruins. Every quiet Echo flower and empty home being reclaimed by moss and stalactites makes you more determined, the feeling taking shape and form in your chest.

“Well, well, well…” A familiar voice says in the echoing dimness, a hunched shape folding from the golden petals growing rampant in the cavern, “Long time no see, Frisk.”

* * *

The red headed man digs his heel into your back, the rubber sole of his boot burning against your spine as you blearily try to focus on where you are, mouth cotton-dry, hands undextrous and heavy. Your eyes feel puffy. You think maybe you were drugged, but there’s a taste of smoke and hot metal on your tongue and broken glass under your face.

“Wh…” you start, the words not coming properly, “...n… Don’t- n…”

“Hey,” Says the red headed man, who stomps a little harder, yanking the air from your chest and making your head spin, “Dreamurr’s awake.”

“God, finally,” Says a brown haired woman, and you can see her boots moving toward you, “Took long enough.”

You look up at her, straining your neck muscles, glass digging into your cheek, “where… Who- what..?”

“Ambassador!” She chimes, leaning downward. Her hair is cropped short, she’s wearing a flacc jacket. She’s holding a gun. You hate guns. Chara hates guns. You all hate guns. All of you hates guns. “You’ve betrayed your race. Anything to say for yourself?”

You’re still a little delirious, so you don’t manage to say anything, but the red headed man removes his boot and the woman grabs you by the back of your shirt, yanking you to your feet. You look out at the crowd, and you can see a few broken, horrified faces and a lot of dust before the woman leans in close and whispers against the side of your face, “You know, we were just gonna bomb this place, but with you here? Totally worth the effort of wrangling up some monsters. You know what the Chinese government is willing to pay for magic soldiers? Not to mention your value as a negotiation tactic. So, thank you, Ambassador.”

You’re technically in combat right now, so you can’t access your menu to reset, but you’re overwhelmed with determination, so you draw up all the energy remaining in your body and slam your skull into hers. Your vision whites out like fireworks at the pain and you can feel somebody’s blood in your hair, but there’s a startled shot and everything goes dark for you.

You load your save from a game over.

* * *

“Asriel,” you say, and step into the bed of flowers, crossing your legs. Asriel grimaces, grossly, sneering at you.

“Shut up, don’t call me that, that’s not my name that’s not my name!”

“Sorry, Flowey,” you sigh, and tug the knife from your waistband, before jabbing it into the ground blade first. It cuts your thigh as you slide it out, only barely. You ignore it. Asriel gives you a weird, confused look.

“...Chara…?” He asks, hesitantly, looking from you to the knife and back. You shake your head. He narrows his eyes and rears his head back. “If you’re not Chara, what the hell are you doing here, Frisk? I hate you. I want you to go away.”

“I don’t hate you,” you sigh, twiddling your hands in your lap, “So this isn’t really fair, but… If I die, you’ll be the only one left who can reset, right?”

He cocks an eyebrow at you, “Yeah? So what?”

“So,” you say, “I can’t die while you’re still alive.”

His face changes from anger to confusion to understanding to fear.

* * *

You come back into yourself at the beginning of the day- you’re looking out at the attendance and the amount of people who’ve come to see Kid’s wedding filled you with determination for a future where humans and monsters might actually know peace- Kid’s wife was a woman he’d met at an amputee support group Alphys had suggested he go to- a nice woman with long red hair and a kind smile. You’d met her once or twice before, she was friendly, and liked white wine and reruns of American Ninja and poker.

You grind your heels into the carpeted floor and turn on a heel to call the police and Undyne. She’s in the back, you know, pulling on a ridiculous lilac piplupped bridesmaid dress you were surprised she’d agreed to wear, but you need her out here with you and spear and you need her now.

Your phone rings and you know who it is before your caller ID tells you. You consider ignoring it and him, because he could be here and he should be here and if he had been here he could help because you can’t do this alone but hey, you have to, right?

“Can’t talk,” you say, trying to sound busy, “I’m fixing this. Could take a few resets. Sorry in advance.” You click the line off before he has a chance to say anything. Odds are he’d slept all day like usual and not even known about the attack in the first place. He was probably just calling to yell at you, how dare you do this, Frisk, you promised, how dare you make me sleep through this day again when I thought I only had to do it once.

You’re so fucking tired of this shit. You don’t want to be here. You shouldn’t have come. You don’t belong here and never did. You’re a wolf trapped in a dog pen and no one else can even tell; they all think you’re one of them, that you belong here, but you’re something different, an outsider wearing skin like theirs and a face they aren’t afraid of, but filled with a million years of bitter instinct and unhindered ability.

You’re ruining everything, again, like always.

* * *

“You’re going to kill me,” Asriel says, incredulously, looking from you to the knife, “after all the time- all these years- _now_ you’re going to kill me??”

You lean on your hand, “I guess. Convince me not to.”

He looks at you and his face stretches into this massive smile and he laughs. You aren’t sure how to react, “What? Are you kidding? You want me to, what? Talk you out of suicide?”

  
You shrug.

“No, oh no. I’ve been down here for… decades. Oh no, _oh no_ , absolutely not. You don’t understand me at _all_ , Frisk.”

You narrow your eyes, “I don’t?”

“No!” He laughs, “Oh, god, Frisk, I’ve been waiting years for you to come down and fucking let me die. You’re the only one who can!”

You stare at him, breathing slowly.

“Please, Frisk,” He says, giving you an honest look, “Please, it’s been so long. Please let me die. We can go together.”

* * *

It takes you seven resets to get everything right. It’s the catering crew, you find out on the third, they’ve infiltrated, with weapons in the vans they brought the food in, and poison in the white wine. The woman’s name, you find, is Ekaterin, a Russian immigrant and human extremist who’d been planning this for months. It had taken you a grand total of eighteen hours to utterly foil her and send everyone there home in a black federal service van without any loss of life.

Even that felt empty. You’d gotten to watch your friends die and it hadn’t mattered. Nothing mattered. You should feel proud, having saved them, you should feel happy, knowing you’d done it over and over and over again until they’d all been safe- but you weren’t. You didn’t. All you felt was hollow, because none of it really mattered. You were still playing God. You could turn to the person on your left, stab them in the chest, load your save and give them a hug. It wouldn’t matter. You could be the one that killed everyone in this room and as long as you went back everyone would love you.

Even Sans doesn’t like you anymore. He’d gone from hating you to loving you to feeling nothing for you at all, an obligation he neither feared nor respected. Just something that existed.

You go home with Undyne and Alphys’s after and try to explain to Alphys what’s wrong, and even though she wants to help, desperately, obviously, she can’t possibly ever understand, and eventually, you steal a bottle of vodka from the freezer and head out. You aren’t a big drinker, but you want to focus on anything, anything but the emptiness in your chest and your inability to find comfort in your friends.

* * *

 

This is the end.

Asriel seems to be serious, because when you slide the knife out of the soil and press the blade against his stalk he straightens and shuts his eyes, waiting. You sit like that for awhile,before sliding it back into the ground and lying back in the flowers. He looks disappointed.

“What? Come on, you can’t tease me like that! You idiot! You monster! How dare you!” He’s yelling, but you close your eyes and feel out the petals on your skin instead. Asriel keeps yelling but you breath in the scent of moist earth and golden flowers and slide your phone out of your front pocket. There’s a voicemail from Sans, but nothing else.

You hold the phone to your ear.

“hey… kid… hey, okay, hey. i’m at your apartment. you’re not… you’re not here. i’m worried, okay? and i need… no, fuck this, okay. look. frisk. i’m sorry.”

You curl against the flowers while Asriel bashes his face angrily against your thigh. He has so little mass to him, it won’t even leave a bruise.

“please come home. i’m not good at talking. i don’t know what to say but you’re right, i let you down, and i’m sorry. please, please come home.”

You put your phone down, and look at Asriel, who has tears in his eyes. He’s gnawing on your pants leg, harmless and furious.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and reach down to rub his cheek. He falls into the motion, sneering but unwilling to lose the contact, “I can’t. Not yet.”

“I  know,” he says, and buries his face in your palm, “You’re never going to do it. You monster. You stupid, idiot monster.”

You pick the knife back up, and return it to your waistband. Asriel hunches back over the flowers and lets his face collapse in the petals. You can’t help him. You never could. Sometimes you have to learn to let go.

You walk back out of the ruins and draw your phone from your pocket, dialling Sans, your first speed dial contact. He answers on the second ring.

“frisk!” he yells, into the headset. It sounds like he’s been crying, “are you okay? you didn’t- you didn’t-”

“I didn’t,” you say, softly. There’s snow under your heels, “You feel up to shortcutting me out of here?”

“i’m coming,” he says, breathless, “where are you?”

You look at your untouched footsteps from the other side of the village, and step inside of them, your bootprints fitting neatly into the shape. The snowfall will cover them, soon, and leave this place as empty as it was.

“Snowdin,” you say, and you hear the intake of air through teeth, “by the old Grillby’s.”

“i’m coming,” he says, and you know, actually, he is.


	4. Absolution

“I’m a- a- I’m the- the- l-legendary f-fartmaster-”

Your breath catches in the throat you don’t have, every molecule of your being freezing. You feel cold, despite the warmth seeping through your sweatshirt. Your hands tremble against the broken back of the ruined thing in your arms, it’s tiny hands buried in fabric and its tiny face buried in your chest. It looks up at you, shaking with the effort, smiling, but differently than it was a few minutes ago.

“w-wait,” you stammer, because the kid you just impaled would never, ever know your code phrase, but you know one person who would, and you hadn’t even considered that person still existed.

Their legs buckle and you hold them up, crushing them against your frame like you can hold their soul together by sheer force of will alone.

“Didn’t- didn’t think-” they stutter, starting to fade out, “anyone could… I’m s-sorry you have to… This isn’t fair, but I…”

“no no no no no,” words are spilling out of you like a desperate waterfall and they’re slipping between your fingers similarly and you both slump to the floor in a sea of red, “wait, no, no, it wasn’t supposed to be you, it wasn’t supposed to be you-”

“…S'okay…” They mumble, nuzzling into your collarbone sleepily, “don’ feel bad… This is… Right thing. I’m come back, again, I think, um… Just… Kill me again, okay…?”

You just keep saying no and clinging to them, because this is wrong, this wasn’t supposed to be this way, you were supposed to kill the murderous freak, not the other one, they weren’t supposed to be interchangeable-

“’M sorry to make you… Do… I know you’re tired, just… I’m not as strong as you, Sans…” Their voice is practically a whisper now, fading quietly, “can’t… Stop… M… Self… It’s okay, you didn’t…. Any… Wrong… Sans…”

That’s the last thing they manage to say, before going slack in your lap, a moist bag of broken bones and burst bits, devoid of life and movement. You cling to it, voiceless, shuddering to horrible broken stops because it wasn’t supposed to be like this, they weren’t supposed to still be in there, they weren’t-

The world blinks around you and the kid is staring you down, body unmarred, with that creepy, serious far full of hate. Your hands shake for a moment, but only for a moment.

_Kill me again, okay…?_

You clench your hand into a fist in your pocket.

* * *

 

There’s snow beneath your shoes and a familiar creeping darkness behind you. Frisk looks tired in a way you haven’t seen them in years and you can’t stop yourself from grabbing them like they were a kid again and crushing them in your arms, desperate and afraid, because you never think it’s going to be the last hug.

“holy shit,” you hiss through your teeth, and their head finds the familiar crook of your shoulder it always does, arms limp, “i thought i’d never see you again.”

“Yeah,” they say, quietly, noncommittally, and you think maybe you can feel tremors in their arms, but it might just be the cold, “Sorry.”

“no, shit, don’t- i-” you take a deep breath, “close your eyes.” They bury their face all the way into the fabric and you take a shortcut back to their apartment where it’s warmer. They practically melt off of you and out of your grasp, kicking off their shoes and collapsing back onto their couch where you’d found them that morning.

“frisk…?” You ask, hesitant, uncertain. They shift to the side like they used to when they needed one of those long four hour hugs and someone to tell them they mattered, but it had been years, and you’d forgotten what it felt like. You’d missed those without realizing.

They smell like flowers and dirt and salt, which was what you thought humans usually smelled like- the salt part, anyway, but the other two were new.

“Do you hate me?” They ask, finally, arms wrapped around your back and legs intertwined, clinging like letting go meant letting go of life itself. Maybe it did.

“what? no,” you say, confused.

“Then why do you act like it?”

“what?! i don’t-” you pause, and settle, “…do i?”

They nod, miserably, “Remember when you ran off that time? After that girl-?” You nod, “Yeah. I went to Undyne’s ‘cuz I- I didn’t know where else to go, with you gone and I thought- I thought you were dead. I thought that was the straw, that, that broke the camel’s back- I thought I’d never see you again. I thought I’d killed you again because I made you feel like I didn’t need you.”

You don’t say anything, there’s nothing to say.

“So I thought- I thought if I gave you that job, you’d see that I did- but it. All it did was make you miserable. You act like I’m fucking Chara trying to drag you to work every day, you look at me like you did when I fucking killed Papyrus every time you see me-”

Your mouth is dry, your hands and clenched into the cotton fabric of their shirt-

“-Everytime I see your name on the caller ID I expect to hear a list of places I’m not welcome, I hear Megalovania in my nightmares and I- I- Jesus Christ, Sans, if you hate me, just say so, just let me go so I can stop trying to do better and be better so you’ll forgive me or care about me, please don’t keep letting me think you could if you can’t-”

You grab them as tight as you can, kicking your legs against the upholstery to try and get closer- “shit. jesus fuck, kid, that’s how you think i feel?”

They don’t respond, hands clutching like a vice abreast your spine, jittering and almost as bony as yours.

“no- holy shit, no. that’s- that’s not it at all. kiddo i judged you innocent and i meant it- i’ve met that thing in your head, i never judged you for stuff they did.”

They bump the top of their head into your chin and you bury your fingers in their hair, “it’s- if it felt like i hated you, i’m sorry. the only one i hate is myself. i shouldn’t have taken it out on you. i- i’m sorry.”

They shift, slowly, so they can look up at you, “Why do you hate yourself so much?”

You don’t know. You can’t answer. Frisk seems to be looking for something in your face, but then they seem to find it, nodding slowly and pulling you back in, which you appreciate because you were starting to spill off the couch, “I need you to do better,” they sigh, like they have to force the words out of their chest, “I need you to care about yourself. I need you to… To want to be happy. I need that.”

You take a long, long pause, long enough you’re worried they’re going to push you off and tell you to leave again, but they don’t, and you say, hoarse, “Okay.”

* * *

 

You’ve got an hour before Toriel comes home and you know the kid can’t deal with her pity. She loves the fuck out of this kid, but her pity can be overwhelming sometimes, crushing, and if they aren’t up for it, you understand. You’re not their mom, you’re their friend, so.

You’re scrubbing their face with soap and water, trying to rub the ink off. Their whole face is bright red and probably hurts to the touch by this point, but their hands are balled into determined fists at their sides and their eyes are scrunched tight while you both sit on the floor of their bathroom and rub their face raw. When you finally lean back, it’s mostly gone- you can still see the faded outlines of letters on their eyelids where you aren’t going to scrub too hard, but their face looks like a lobster and their eyes are moist and puffy.

“you okay?” You ask. They open their eyes, wincing, and look in the mirror, before turning to you.

“Thank you, Sans,” they say, burying their face in your torso and wrapping their arms around your ribcage, “Thank you.”

“always, bud,” you say, and scoop them up like it’s easy, “let’s go put you in bed so Mom doesn’t suspect anything about the little 'you’re sick’ fib, alright?”

* * *

 

You tuck the bottom of your white dress shirt into your pants, frowning as you adjust it again. It’s hard to make it stay the way you want it- there’s not a lot to grab onto down there, and your open, gaping midsection makes the bottom of the shirt look weird when it isn’t hanging loose. You button the jacket over it and that helps at least, a little, because the fabric is so stiff. The tie is trickier- you never actually learned to tie one, and you settle for just laying it on your shoulders until you can pull up a tutorial on youtube on the drive there.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in!” You call, stomping your feet into the dress shoes you’d never worn before. They were really comfortable, actually, soft black leather. You can hear Frisk’s feet on the stairs, and when they open the door, they look at your bed before staring at you in front of the uncovered mirror in your room, actually dressed properly for once. Their face goes from surprised to delighted in a slow build that makes you want to blush with embarrassment.

“Sans,” they say, “you tucked your shirt in.”

You snort, and shrug, “I don’t know how to do the tie.”

“Oh!” They say, then step up behind you. God, they really are taller than you, “Sorry, I gotta do it from the front, you know? Here, look, you just-” they fell silent, focused, threading the fat end through the loops into a perfect, practiced windsor. You frown, because it was really complicated and you didn’t quite catch it all.

“You might have to show me that again,” you sigh, straightening your collar in the mirror. It looks weird against all the empty space against your spinal chord.

“That’s okay,” Frisk says, “We can work on it. You look good.”

You drop your hands and look at yourself in the mirror. You look strange, all dressed up and formal, like an adult, like a professional, like you know what you’re doing, like you care about what you’re doing.

“Yeah,” you say, “I do, actually.”

“Come on, Sans, let’s get going,” Frisk says, and elbows you lightly, stepping out of the room. You look back in the mirror for a moment and straighten your back.

“Yeah,” you say, “here we go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaa, the next chapter is half done, but I'd rather cut it here, personal preference I guess. All my other Undertale stuff is once shots, so I guess this is for peeps who prefer chapter stuff instead of one long info dump. Congrats it has arrived more weird angsty post game garbo aha


End file.
